


To Fall Down at Your Door

by mahons_ondine



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Feelings, Kent is an idiot, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-22 11:03:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11378865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mahons_ondine/pseuds/mahons_ondine
Summary: Kent Parson is pretty sure he's completely ruined the best friendship he will ever have, and he runs from that knowledge.  It takes him four years to find out just how wrong, and also how right he was.





	To Fall Down at Your Door

**Author's Note:**

  * For [staunchly_anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/staunchly_anonymous/gifts).



> First, yes the title is absolutely a line from "I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)" by the Proclaimers. I'm not ashamed! 
> 
> Second, it's been quite a while since I wrote anything for fandom in general, and it's great to be back. So a big thank you to the Mods and organizers and participants and everyone involved in the KVP Birthday Bash. 
> 
> And finally, to staunchly_anonymous, i hope this fulfills a little of what you wanted! I did the best I could! 
> 
> And here's the Prompt: "Jack Zimmermann has never been able to figure out how he lost his closest friend. Four years ago, his roommate cut him off without an explanation. So what if things got a little weird on the last night of hockey camp the summer they were eighteen? It was just a little drunken foolishness. Nobody died.
> 
> Kent Parson’s biggest regret is coaxing his very straight friend into a bet that pushed the boundaries of their relationship. Now, with their college teams set to face off at the national championship, he’ll finally get a chance to apologize. But all it takes is one look at his longtime crush, and the ache is stronger than ever.
> 
> Jack has waited a long time for answers, but walks away with only more questions—can one night of sex ruin a friendship? If not, how about six more weeks of it? When Kent turns up to coach alongside Jack for one more hot summer at camp, Jack has a few things to discover about his old friend... and a big one to learn about himself."

Kent Parson has seen Jack Zimmermann exactly 17 times in the last four years.  He has seen him from across the room. He has seen him from the stands. He has seen the back of his head, his perfect, stupid head, from where he was wedged into a booth, and his feet when he dropped to the floor so that he didn’t have to speak to him.  He has seen his perfect ass, as Jack climbed into a bus.  Kent has seen every piece of Jack in these four years, except his face, until now.  And it’s a good thing, too, because those eyes of his, almost silver in the glare off the ice, cut into him just as deeply as he remembered.  Those eyes see right through him, and Kent is lost. 

The faceoff is also lost.  It’s hard playing hockey against the love of your life, especially when you haven’t seen him in four years. 

The last time Kent saw Jack Zimmermann, he didn’t have to face those eyes.  He just slid out of bed, donned his rumpled clothes, and smoothed the wrinkles on a still-sleeping Jack’s forehead with a kiss.  And then he left.  He walked out of Jack’s life as surely as he walked out of that dorm room, off that campus and onto a plane headed to UNLV.  And he didn’t look back, too afraid of what he might see, or perhaps what he might not see. 

There were the calls then, of course there were.  Calls and texts and messages.  Even an email.  But Kent deleted all of them unread.  And when the love bites and bruises started to fade, so too did the contact from Jack.  And it got easier. 

It got easier when got rid of the photos. 

It got easier when he kissed another boy.  And then another. 

And it was easier, too, when he was playing hockey.  When he was on the ice, the adrenaline rushing through his veins, the crowd in his ears and the air in his face and the burn in his muscles crowded out all his regret and fear.  And so he played.  He played and he trained and he was good.  The best on his team, the best, perhaps, in the NCAA.  Better than even the object of his obsession, at least according to some. 

So it would come to this.  It had to come to this.  The two best players in the NCAA facing off against one another in the championship game.  It would come to this—Kent Parson staring down Jack Zimmermann—and being unable to look away.  And once again losing to him.  But what’s a faceoff?  What is a puck?  He lost his virginity, his heart, and his best friend already.  Who cares about a silly little puck? 

Well, actually, Kent cares.  Apparently, Kent cares about a silly little puck.  A faceoff, a game.  And he is tired of losing. 

He doesn’t lose another faceoff all game.  And the winning feels less like losing than it had before.  They win 2-1, and Kent gets carried off by his teammates.  When Jack nods at him from across the ice, mouthing _good game_ , Kent pretends not to see.  Kent pretends that not every word Jack says looks and sounds like “love.” Kent pretends.  And he’s almost as good at it, as he is at hockey. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s a little ridiculous, Kent thinks, hoisting his bags onto his shoulders, that he’s back here after all this time.  And really, it’s not like he _needed_ the job, I mean, NHL contracts aren’t exactly thin on the compensation side of things.  It’s not the money.  It’s just that he needed something to do?  Something to fill the months between college and real life.  He’s pretty sure one of his English professors would sprout off some nonsense about liminal spaces and times, and returning to the old comforts of his past, as an escape from fear of the impending responsibilities of his future.  And yeah, well they’d probably be a little bit right.  Mostly though, it’s kind of the only job he applied for that he got? So sue him, he doesn’t exactly have a lot of marketable skills outside of hockey.  And that musical theater song “What Do You Do with a BA in English?” is shockingly apt.  So…camp. 

Hockey camp.

The same hockey camp that he attended all throughout high school.  The same hockey camp that he met his best friend at.  That he lost his best friend at.  That his best friend is currently walking across towards him. 

“Fuck.  This cannot be happening. This just cannot be happening. “

He’s not exactly proud of himself, but Kent does the only thing that his body seems to be capable of—he turns tail and runs.  He’ll have to deal with this at some point, but that point does not have to be today.  That point can wait. 

And it does.  It waits through unpacking, and dinner in the dining hall.  But after their staff orientation meeting there is no more waiting.  There is only Jack Zimmermann filling up all the space in the room, blocking his exit. 

“Kenny?”

“Kent. No one calls me Kenny.” 

“Oh, right.  Kent, then,” Jack scrubs his face against his hands, looking so miserable that Kent can’t help but soften. 

“What is it, Jack?”

“I just wanted to say that I get it.  And we don’t have to talk about it, and I’m really sorry.  Can we just –“

“Go back to being friends? What like four years hasn’t gone by? Or start again? Like I don’t know exactly who you are?”

“No, I.  No, I know.  I just thought… Look can we just work together?”

“Yeah, Zimms,” Kent sighs, deflating into the wall next to the blocked door frame. 

Kent is trembling, shivering almost, so hard that he doesn’t know if his knees would hold him.  It’s hard to breathe when Jack is so close.  When Jack looks so good, so hopeful. 

“Right! Good then.  And Kent, I know I said it a million times, but I’m sorry.  I had no idea.”

Jack reaches out to pat his shoulder, and Kent can’t help it.  He flinches.  He flinches, and Jack yanks his hand away like he’s diseased and mutters out more apologies and self-recriminations and blushes and backs away. And Kent can do nothing, but nod and wait until Jack is gone so that he can slide to the floor, hide his face in his arms, and cry. 

It’s not like Jack can help who he is, right? And he did try to be nice.  Even if he couldn’t touch Kent without looking disgusted.  Even if he couldn’t stop with his damn apologies.  Kent doesn’t need apologies; he knows how bad Jack feels about what happened.  It was written all over his face. And frankly, Kent has spent plenty of time feeling quite pathetic on his own, and he doesn’t need anyone else to tell him just how pathetic he is.  Especially not Jack, who, frankly, as far as Kent can tell is probably the one who should be getting the apologies, not issuing them.  It’s not Jack’s fault that Kent is pathetically in love with him.  It’s not Jack’s fault that they got drunk, and Kent took advantage of loosened inhibitions, both his and Jack’s.  None of it is Jack’s fault.

If Jack wants to work together, then that is what he’ll get.  Kent owes him that much at least.  Jack didn’t know he would be here, and if he can be the bigger man, and suck it up and work with Kent, then Kent will work with him. 

They’ve worked together before.  Well, they’ve played together.  And that’s basically the same thing.  And boy did they play together.  When they played on the same line it was like the whole sky could open up, an elephant could climb onto the rink, literal pigs could fly and yet they would know exactly where the other was.  Nothing got between them.  It was almost a sixth sense.  Or maybe an extension of touch? That Kent extended into Jack and Jack into Kent and wherever their bodies were in space there was this instinctual understanding, this knowing.  Kent has thought a lot about it in the intervening 4 years.  So yeah, he’s kinda got a lot to say on the subject.  Lots of poetry, really. Not that anyone has or will ever read the poetry that he absolutely would not, has never written about Jack. 

So it should be easy, right? To work together.  It should be easy to put things aside.  After all, it appears that Jack has, and Kent spoke to him and things were kind of ok? Like, not _actually_ ok, but also not awful.  Things were fine.  They were fine.  Are fine.  And honestly, Kent isn’t that fast off the ice, he just cannot keep running away.  It’s an abrupt change, to be sure, but he’ll manage.    Besides, there’s something about this place, about this camp that feels a little magical still. It always felt like anything was possible here.  Like, the entire world was open to him, and he almost floated through, barely touching the ground.  So yeah, it’s sudden, and yes, it’s a huge change, but Kent feels more optimistic than not!

And hey, if it really goes horribly, horribly wrong, then Kent can quit and go hide at his mother’s house until he has to start fulfilling his NHL contract far, far away from Jack Zimmermann.  So, yeah. Kent has a plan.  And a backup, too.  Good.  It’ll be totally fine. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So, this camp is six weeks long, right? And they’re halfway through week one, when Kent realizes, that honestly? Things actually _are_ fine.  Well, Kent and Jack aren’t exactly speaking to one another.  But they’re not _not_ speaking either.  It’s ok.  They don’t need to be speaking. After all, they’re working with different age groups—Jack apparently really loves the little ones. It’s not at all endearing or sweet or sexy at all, you know, just to clarify.  Kent doesn’t find think about Jack that way.  Not really.  He just has thought about him that way for so long that it lingers! That’s it.  He has crush residue all over him, like this glowing glitter, and nope, nope that’s just his skin.  Yeah, Kent is totally fucked. 

But that said, it seems like his job at least is not going too poorly.  The kids love him.  He gets to shepherd the next generation of teenagers through the trial of deciding on AHL, versus NHL versus NCAA, and also the trial of hormones.  And that’s pretty fun.  Kent is good at all of those things.  So he’s having a pretty good time, to be honest.  He thought that it would be a slog, a six week emotional slog through, just so that he didn’t have to be the wimp who ran away for the millionth time.  And in fact, Kent is feeling fine. If anything, well, he finds that he _wants_ to talk to Jack.  Yeah, so he’s a sucker for punishment, but he has to admit that he feels better.  He feels lighter now that they’ve finally spoken.  Maybe, he reasons, it’s finally time to get everything out in the open. 

It takes a couple more days for Kent to finally get up the courage to corner Jack, and ask him to come back to his room to talk.  Four years’ worth of habits are hard to break, alright? So sue him.  He thought about waiting until the last night of camp, pulling a remix of their last night as campers.  For once in life though, he’s not being the avoidant jerk he’s so used to being.  Honestly, he’s not sure why.  Maybe he’s punishing himself?  Maybe he’s just so flustered by the fact that Jack actually apologized to him?  Maybe he’s just growing up.  Well, probably not. 

Whatever it is, though, he does eventually end up awkwardly perched on his bed, Jack sitting across from him at his desk.  It may not be much, but Kent is very glad that at least as counselors they get private dorm rooms.  He may be into emotional self-flagellation, but he’s certainly not into public humiliation.  And from how uncomfortable Jack looks, well, he figures it’s for the best for the both of them. 

“Uh, Kent?”

“Yeah?”

“You said you wanted to talk, but you’ve been staring at me for about five minutes.”

Kent jolts up.  “Shoot, sorry.  I just.  I was just thinking? About what I wanted to say?”

“Right…”

“Right! So, yeah I just wanted to say that I was sorry.  Because you apologized, and really you didn’t need to.  It should have been me apologizing, you know? So yeah, I just wanted to say that I was sorry.  For leaving, for ignoring you, heck for thinking up the bet in the first place.  I’m sorry.  I am. It’s so much more my fault and I really fucked up and I know you think I’m gross and it must be super weird to be around me and I’m just sorry for all of it.  Ok? “

Kent finally looks up from his feet, now that he’s finally said it all.  Finally taken responsibility for it all.  He looks up and catches sight of Jack’s face, and blanches.  Jack looks as pale as a ghost.   

“Jack—“

“Stop,” Jack grinds out. 

And then he’s up out of his chair, in Kent’s space.  He’s so close Kent can smell him.  His cheap soap, and the tang of sweat and the sweetness of his breath against Kent’s face.

“Tell me everything.  From the beginning,” he whispers. 

And Kent can’t tell if Jack is shaking, or trembling.  If he’s angry or frightened or just confused.  Jack looks wrecked.  So pale, but now with spots of color high on his cheeks, the sheen of sweat on his brow.  He looks scary and also scared, and Kent can’t say no to him.  Not now.  Not when he’s right there.  Not when he looks about three breaths away from a panic attack.  Kent cannot refuse him anything.  He never really could.  It’s why he cut him off entirely.  He didn’t have to give him everything if Jack wasn’t there to ask. But now he is.  Now he’s here and he’s asking, and Kent caves.  It all comes rushing out of him.  A torrent of secrets and lies and fears and love, so much love. 

It started early, he tells him.  Their very first year at camp, when they were 14 and then 15, and Kent just couldn’t keep his eyes off of Jack.  And he didn’t understand.  It’s not like there had ever been time for dating or thinking about dating girls, or _boys._ And how confused he felt.  How terrified and in denial.  And how that lasted for year upon year until finally their last year at the camp he had accepted it.  Decided that he wanted his best friend.  _Wanted_ him.  As a friend and a teammate and a partner and a boyfriend.  How his mouth would go dry when Jack would wide his face with his shirt in the weight room.  How many times he hung around in the locker room after practices so that he didn’t have to share a shower and embarrass himself.  How many times he couldn’t help but sneak in a little early and catch a glimpse of Jack. 

And how guilty he felt.  How sick he knows that is.  What a violation of their friendship, and of Jack all of it was.  How could he possibly ever say anything. And even if he could speak up, he didn’t know how to tell his perfect, beautiful, very straight hockey robot of a friend that he wanted to lick the sweat from his abs and kiss him awake and hold his hand. And fuck, they’re hockey players.  Hockey isn’t known for being a warm and open and welcoming sport.  He could have ruined his career before it began.  He still could.  And so he kept his mouth shut and his eyes averted and played and played and tried not to think about it. 

And it worked.  Until it didn’t.  It worked until he knew that Jack was going to school on the East coast and he was going to school in the Midwest and they wouldn’t see each other and maybe just maybe he could get away with something.  Maybe he could tell Jack.  In the end, though, Kent decided not to tell Jack, he says.  In the end he got their friend Swoops to dare Jack to kiss him.  It was such a childish move.  And Kent was embarrassed to even be asking, but his heart swelled up, choking him, filling him with such hope as he overheard Jack’s easy laugh.  His off-the-cuff remark that a kiss was such an easy dare.  Nothing at all to be worried about. 

And then he felt that hope in his chest, that rising heat turn into sick dread, when Jeff bet Jack that he wouldn’t kiss Kent, and if he did, well he certainly wouldn’t go further.  Maybe jerk him off.  And Kent bolted, not even waiting to hear anything past Jack’s shocked gasp, his muttered  ‘that’s gay.’ 

Kent bolted to the bathroom to throw up his dinner, and about 6 beers, and then he went to lick his wounds in his dorm, in his bed, hoping Jack wouldn’t come back to their shared room. 

But he had.  He’d come back, nervous and clearly uncomfortable, and unsteady on his feet from too much alcohol.  And he’d climbed into bed with Kent and kissed him and kissed him and touched him.  And Kent was so tired, and drunk and sad and he wanted.  He was so tired from wanting, that he let him. That he kissed him back, desperately.  Tore at his clothes.  And tried to forget that he knew it was a bet.  That he knew it was a dare.  That he knew that Jack had to practically drown himself in alcohol to be able to stand touching him.  And he could almost forget.  He could pretend that the kisses meant something.  That Jack felt for him what he felt for Jack.  And then when he woke up in the morning, well, it was all gone.  The haze of alcohol and hope, and he knew that he couldn’t face that rejection.  That he would break into a million tiny pieces if he had to hear Jack say it was just a joke, a bet, a nothing.  And so he left, and ignored Jack’s messages.  He left and he didn’t look back. 

“And that’s everything.  That’s what happened.” 

Kent looks up, realizing for the first time as he’s told his story that Jack never sat back down.  Jack is still so close, breathing hard, and he’s gripping onto Kent’s shoulders like they’re his last lifeline.  Like he can’t imagine ever, ever letting go.  Like he might just pass out or fall or who knows what, if Kent pushed him away.  But he doesn’t. 

“I’m sorry,” Kent pleads.  “I know I shouldn’t have, but—“ 

Jack barks out a laugh, and Kent flinches. 

“No, Kenny.  Stop.  Just it’s fine,” a smile breaks across Jack’s face, so big it looks like it hurts. “It’s fine, Kenny.  You’re just, _tabarnac. Tu es un esti de gros cave.  Idiot!_ Idiot!” 

And Jack is laughing.  Laughing in his face, and Kent feels so small he might just disappear.  And then Jack is closer, and he isn’t laughing anymore.  He isn’t laughing, he’s kissing him.  He’s kissing him like the air he breathes must come from Kent, like a drowning man gasps for air.  And Kent feels every touch in slow motion.  Everything is sharp and clear and bright, like the world has been out of focus for so long, and finally he can see. 

**Author's Note:**

> Tu es un esti de gros cave. = You are a huge idiot.


End file.
